


Sanzaru

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People never say it's the ruin of a stone to polish it and Coward is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanzaru

**Author's Note:**

> unsettledink 's exploration of Coward's POV of this is amazing and should definitely be read, [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/128348)

Cut a diamond to make it shine. Set it in a clasp of gold, or silver, or iron, to keep it. 

Coward is his. Is his. Is his. (Say it three times like a pronouncing angel. Blackwood will stamp this fact into the bones of the universe if he can.) At his core that is what Coward  _is_  and Blackwood knows Coward's heart.

Knows what can be sliced away. What is inessential, or worse, what obscures the clarity of his love's light. 

People never say it's the ruin of a stone to polish it. 

Blackwood takes his voice first. Snips it from his mouth. That slippery little morsel of flesh; a delicacy, tongue so soft, blood rich. Blackwood understands him well enough at a glance, by his eyes, by the trembling set of his body and Coward need never speak to anyone else. 

Coward can only hurt himself with words. 

But then, there are other flaws that need correction too. 

Blackwood has Reordan work his solutions. They test everything first, of course, for Coward is far too precious to be any sort of guinea pig and Blackwood is only satisfied with the best. It takes three months before they have a chemical that will blind without dulling the colour of the eye. 

There is no finer shade of blue, Blackwood is sure, to be found anywhere in the world and it's kept now, untainted. Pure. There is no one,  _nothing_ for Coward to spill his gaze upon accidentally. All it takes is a word, a touch of his hand, to tip Coward's head up and illuminate those eyes once more for his pleasure. 

It isn't quite enough. 

Coward is his. 

Is his. Is  _his_. Coward does not belong to the world. Blackwood can only rest when he knows that Coward is cloistered safe in the palm of his hand, tied to him in every way that matters, bound unassailable. 

Once Coward has been deafened he no longer likes to leave his bed, the safety of the treasure box that Blackwood has placed him in. Beautifully complacent, so tender and desperate for the reassurance of Blackwood's hands, his scent. 

Sometimes Blackwood will have the servants rearrange the furniture just to make sure. Sometimes he will leave Coward alone in the dark and the silence for days, so when he returns Coward clings to him, touch starved and half out of his mind. Weeping, shivering, grateful for whatever Blackwood wishes to give him. 

Coward is not broken. He is perfected.


End file.
